Some dishes were nestling in wreaths of crushed ice, others were being kept hot in chafing dishes – it seemed to Honeysett a strange and uncomfortable way of serving food and went against all his training and experience but that was what, increasingly, this informal world demanded. Experimentation. Novelty. And Honeysett was nothing if not supple. He rather liked to think that, in the most discreet way, he identified the trends and set the style. And young Anna had come up with some intriguing ideas. She was the right generation, after all. Buffet luncheons, short skirts, fast cars, picture houses – she was becoming a bridge between his Edwardian world and her modern one. He must find a way of retaining her services. By some means or other.
The doors rolled back and the crowd gasped. Several broke with tradition and sacrificed their dignity sufficiently to join the prince in a congratulatory clap of the hands at the sight of the buffet.
The prince leaned over and whispered to Lily, ‘Did I say picnic? No. Ali Baba’s feast, that’s what we’ve got. What fun! Let’s go in, shall we, and inspect it more closely? I don’t know whether we’re expected to eat it or paint it. Tell you what, where’s that photographer chappie? We’ll get him to record it for posterity … Ah, there he is!’
A murmured word sent Cyril into the dining room where his flash devices were soon adding highlights to the aspic-gleaming mosaic. As he retreated, he managed to speak briefly to Lily. ‘All’s well. No dark horses in this paddock. Or nameless strawberry roans. More than halfway through the evening, chuck. I’ll stay close.’
The prince was still showing a flattering appreciation of the display and shooting a knowledgeable comment or two to the chief steward, who had remained in attendance to collect the compliments. In his easy way, the prince questioned the appearance of oysters in the line-up. Was this an oyster month? Was September quite safe? He seemed satisfied by the answer, which involved a eulogy to the vigorous Whitstable production. He showed a gratifying appreciation of the variety and quantity of caviar. The steward, with a confidential air, recommended that His Royal Highness try the … he tactfully suppressed the word ‘red’ and substituted ‘garnet-coloured variety’.
As they made their way towards the two servers, Edward grinned and treated Lily to a line or two from a West End show, the extravagant gastronomic celebration ‘Here Be Oysters Stewed in Honey’ from Chu Chin Chow. His grin widened when Lily joined in, supplying the next two lines of culinary oddities.
A dark-haired steward stepped forward, plate and napkin in hand, to guide Lily’s choice. A matching pretty girl offered the same service to the prince. Italians? Lily thought so.
‘Oh, Lily, how to choose. Shall we start with fishy things? Caviar? Oysters? Oh, I spot some salmon up there. Mademoiselle, I’ll have the salmon. And some soured cream and watercress sauce if you have it.’
The girl smiled and raised the plate she was holding ready for him. She fixed the prince with what Lily, in her state of alertness, recognized as a conspiratorial look and, with a flourish, wiped her napkin across it. A gesture that clearly said, ‘Clean plate, no problems.’ One of Sandilands’ team? How many women did he have on his books? The girl seemed to have the advantage of Lily, apparently knowing exactly who or what she was – there was no mistaking the swift complicitous smile she directed at her. In a gently accented voice she persuaded the prince to sample one or two more of the dishes … ‘almond-studded fricasseed tails of Persian lamb … shellfish tossed with spices …’
With smiling good manners, the prince watched as his simple choice of salmon was shouldered aside by piles of highly seasoned exotica. Lily turned to the male server. ‘That looks utterly delicious! I’ll have exactly the same dishes, please, if you can remember them.’
‘But of course, mademoiselle.’ Up came the plate and the ladles worked, scooping and spooning, producing a replica of the prince’s plate. They followed a footman to a corner table laid for eight and the prince indicated that Lily should sit by his side. They settled to wait for friends of the prince to emerge with their plates from the throng now steadily making inroads into the display.
Edward sniffed appreciatively at his food. ‘Ah! The scents of the east! I really grew accustomed to this sort of thing in India. Wonderful cooking! I say – not used to this new style of going on – how long do we have to wait before we can tuck in?’
‘Until at least one other couple has settled with us,’ Lily said firmly, inventing the etiquette. ‘But look, before you start – and you’ll think this a bit fussy—’